


See You Again

by transiock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Sherlock, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Reverse Reichenbach, its sad okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-14 06:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15382239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transiock/pseuds/transiock
Summary: Sherlock had watched him fall. He saw him on the top of the building, and he had watched him fall. He had to repeat it for it to be real. Now, his flat was empty and John was gone. Now, he had to survive this. He didn't know how he was going to survive this.





	1. One

I didn't know how I was going to survive this. John's chair was empty. Dust was floating in the sunlight, and John's chair was empty. I plucked a string and nothing moved. Nothing changed. John's chair was still empty. Mrs Hudson had brought up tea at some point. I was too present to ignore her. I couldn't stay behind my mind no matter how hard I tried, and believe me, I tried. I was forced to stay present, forced to look at John's chair and think about why he wasn't in it. 

 

Lestrade hadn't given me any cases. Said he was giving me time, but I didn't need time. I needed something to work one, something to put my mind into. He of all people should've understood that. Mycroft hadn't said anything, Molly wasn't speaking to anyone, and Mrs Hudson was bringing me tea. Every hour on the dot, she would come through the doorway, a tray in her hand, and she would replace the cold mugs with new, hot ones. She still brought two. 

 

I sat in my chair, staring at the one opposite me. I sat, and the sun went down, and I couldn't find the energy to get up. I didn’t want to move or breathe or acknowledge that this space was real. When I met John— A long time ago, almost a forever ago— I swore I wouldn’t get attached. I never get attached, but now here I was. John was gone and I… His chair was empty. And he wasn’t coming back. 

 

I could picture his face. The way he looked on that roof. His tremor was gone, that’s for sure. He looked like he was ready to take on the world, like he would go through Hell if it meant I was okay. I wasn’t okay, not now, not with him gone. Christ, he was such an idiot— Thinking I would be okay without him. I had gone and made myself attached and then he left. He stepped right off that building and he was gone. 

 

Mrs Hudson stopped asking me if I was okay during the third round of tea. She stopped asking if I would move or what I was thinking, she just brought the tea and went back downstairs. I think I had a sip once. My head was too fuzzy to remember. All I could remember was John’s face and how sure he sure he looked. His heroism finally landed him on concrete. Spread out like some common death. They didn’t even let me see him. Lestrade said he was trying to protect me. 

 

I plucked another string. A simple D string rang through the air. John would ask what I was thinking about. He would want me to see this body— his body. He would want me to see. It would be too easy to pretend none of this happened, John wasn’t on that building, he didn’t fall, he didn’t die, he was on his way home with milk and some small toy that reminded him of me. It would be too easy to lose myself, and he would hate me for that. I needed to see. He would want me to. 

 

I thought about sneaking into the morgue, but I couldn’t get out of my chair. The sun was going down at this point. I couldn’t see the dust anymore. I closed my eyes and for a second, just for a moment, I could pretend John’s footsteps were somewhere in the flat. I pushed down the temptation to pretend he was still here. The tea had stopped coming in. By now I would be in my room or John’s room. I would be under the covers and he would be wrapped around me, telling me about some doctor story. He would be here. He was supposed to be here. I plucked another sting. The note was harsh and died quickly in the air. I plucked it again, and again, then once more. It was out of tune. 

 

I sighed. Then got up. One good hit was all it took for the violin to splinter, but I hit it again against the side of his chair. The deathly empty fucking chair. The sound was awful, but I didn’t care. I think I yelled. I must’ve. Mrs Hudson was rushing up the stairs, standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. I dropped the neck of the violin on the floor and didn’t look at her as I went upstairs. 

 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I knew that. All of this— all of it— could’ve gone so much different. John wanted to be a hero. I knew he was planning something, I knew he was trying to be the hero. I should’ve tried to stop him, confronted him, done something. He would’ve listened to me. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

 

His room was also empty. And quiet. It would’ve been peaceful on any other day before this. The bed was made. Probably one of the last things John touched in the whole flat. I walked forward and sat on the edge. I had been in this bed so many times before. When John spent long nights at the local clinic when he dragged me upstairs to do nothing but fall asleep next to me. I had spent so many nights in here, and during all of them, I thought about all the reasons it was a bad idea, all the ways this could end in flames. I had spent so much time trying to convince John that this wasn't worth it, and now he wasn't here to argue with. 

 

I didn't pull the covers back. I laid on top of them and stared at the wall. He kept his room neat. He kept everything neat. He wasn't a bad roommate. If I breathed in and closed my eyes, I could pretend to feel him next to me. He would wrap his arms around me for the whole night and wouldn't move. If I turned around he would wait until I was facing him before pulling me closer. He wasn't scared of having me close. I turned and faced the other wall. I reached my hand out to see if maybe there was still an indentation of him in the mattress. Nothing. He was gone. Even the room had moved on. 

 

Everyone said they wouldn't mind if I didn't work for a while. They acted like John was my husband or something. I got a barrage of texts from everyone. Everyone from Molly to Anderson was "checking in" on me. I wanted to tell them all to go away but instead turned my phone off. It had only been a day and I didn't know how I was going to survive this. I really should have been blaming him. John was the one who left. I stared at the wall and wondered what he would say to me right now. He probably wouldn't say anything; he would just lay next to me and talk to me about cases or patients or something. He wouldn't force me out of bed. He wouldn't make me tea. He would just stay next to me. 

 

I don't remember falling asleep that night. I woke up with the sun in my eyes, sun streaming through the living room windows, invading the kitchen. I woke up to a very quiet flat. I've heard countless people say that they had moments where they didn't realize the person was dead. They went to call their name and it died on their tongue as the remembered. I wish I had that moment, that small moment of everything being normal again. I didn't. I woke up with a weight on my chest, a weight that had been there all of yesterday and I would've been surprised if it ever left. 

 

I didn't sit in my chair. My hands felt like they were going thin at the edges, like they were fading into the background, and I couldn't have my whole body fade. I grabbed my coat, caught a cab, and arrived at Scotland Yard, which was quiet too. Lestrade was the first one who saw me, but everyone else was turning their heads. I wanted them all to disappear. My head felt fuzzy, blurred. I should've been here with John. John would tell them all to go fuck themselves. What were they looking at? Didn't they have jobs to do? 

 

I saw Lestrade running towards me, but my vision was going too. Fading. Nothing felt real. This couldn't be real. I hated this. John should've been here. Everything was in slow motion. I was falling, but I didn't realize until I was on the ground. Until Lestrade was over me. I could hear whispers in the background, but they might've been yells. Nothing was working properly. My entire system had been compromised. John fucking Watson had ruined my entire system. 

 

Lestrade said something, but I couldn't retain it. I ended up in one of the interrogation rooms with him. I sat against the wall with my legs pulled up to my chest and he was saying something about 'understanding what you're going through' and I laughed. I think I laughed. Because it was ridiculous. He didn't—He couldn't. He couldn't understand. John had left. John was gone. John was in a morgue somewhere, and I couldn't see his body. I couldn't see him. Every memory I had, from seeing John for the first time, to seeing him on top of that building, all of it was flashing by me. I felt like I was losing them too. I had lost everything. John was everything. And he was alone in a morgue somewhere. Lestrade couldn't understand that. 

 

He was sitting by me, squatting with his hands relaxed over his knees. He was saying something again, but my head hurt, and I was beginning to think this wasn't a good idea. I was starting to think that I should go home. I pushed him away and went to stand, shaking my head. That's when I saw him. He looked the same. His clothes were a bit wrinkled, but everything was still the same. I thought he was a hallucination at first (I wouldn't have been surprised), but then he smiled, and Lestrade was talking again. 

 

"Sherlock," was the first word he said. Everything felt like it was back in full colour. I think I fell over again because I ended up in his arms. He sat me in a chair, and I couldn't feel my legs, and I tried to think of the last time one person had me so fucked, but I couldn't. I couldn't think. I already couldn't think when he was gone, and now he wasn't. 

 

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry." 

 

I shook my head. I couldn't think. He always made it hard to think. 

 

"They wouldn't let me tell you anything until afterwards. I wanted—I'm sorry." 

 

I wanted to say it was okay, I was fine, he was back and I was okay, but I couldn't get words out. John was back and I couldn't speak. Lestrade was still in the room, standing with his arms cross, his face pinched. He was giving me a look like he was looking at a kicked puppy. 

 

I laid my head down, reaching my hand out. John took it without hesitation. He stayed quiet, but his thinking was so loud. They swam around, his thoughts, they floated above our heads and around our hands. I didn't know if I liked them. I liked that he kept quiet. I sniffed and raised my head. 

 

"You're not—" 

 

He shook his head, "Alive. In one piece. I'm fine." 

 

"I watched you fall." 

 

"I know." 

 

"I thought you—" 

 

"I know, Sherlock. I know." 

 

"They wouldn't let me see you." 

 

"There wasn't a body to see." 

 

I nodded, keeping my eyes on him. I didn't know if I could trust my eyes. They had failed me before. I should've seen it. I wanted so badly to believe he was still alive, and he was, and I didn't know. Betrayed. I laid my head back down, closing my eyes. John squeezed my hand. 

 

"I'm alright, Sherlock." 

 

"I know."


	2. Two

He came home with me. He picked up my violin and made a joke about glueing it back together because he would miss it too much. I dropped my coat on the floor and he picked that up too. His footsteps weren't right. He didn't walk like he owned the room, more like he was renting, like he was just occupying space, like he was waiting to be kicked out. It was different, and I already had too much different.

 

"We weren't—Mycroft wanted me to wait longer," he said, straightening out.

 

"But you didn't," I replied, voice cool and quiet.

 

"No," He set violin pieces on the coffee table, "Lestrade said it was too much." He sucked in a breath, "And I... wanted to come back."

 

I sat in my chair, crossing my legs. I wondered if I could still get away with sitting here all day. John sat down across from me with a soft sigh.

 

"What happened?"

 

He looked around the room as he thought of the answer, probably looking for evidence that I was broken, "I can't tell you that."

 

"You came back. Tell me what happened."

 

He locked his eyes on me. They were soft, almost melting with the amount of pity behind them. "I can't, Sherlock. You know I can't."

 

I swear, I would've thrown something at him if he hadn't come back from the dead (he didn't come back from the dead, he never was dead). I had an urge to stomp my feet and kick a wall. I balled my fists instead.

 

"You came back. You came back, John," I said, my eyes on the rug in front of me.

 

His voice was soft when it interrupted the silence, "I came back."

 

"For me?" I asked, and I tried to not make it sound pathetic, I tried to sound cold, uncaring because of course he didn't affect me. I was untouchable. Of course, that wasn't true. All of my walls and protections were shattered the moment I saw him fall. That image, that memory, it stuck in my brain like a piece of glass, even with him sitting right in front of me. My voice shook with just the thought of the thought of the memory.

 

He looked down, just for a flash of a moment, "Yes," he replied, his voice still soft, his eyes still dripping with empathy. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, the now not empty chair, the now full chair with the person that should be sitting in the chair, "And because I would have to come back eventually. Mycroft wanted to wait. I didn't, neither did Greg, so... I came back." His words were almost tripping over each other. I was sure with a good wine and a few hours he would tell me all of the details anyway. I was sure this was him simply trying to be formal.

 

"Why did he want you to wait?" I asked, not focusing on all the other details, the tapping hands, the small movements of his hips and back as he got comfortable in the chair as if he had been for two years instead of 24 hours. It felt like a grating waste of time, trying to ask him questions without shouting or demanding answers, but I navigated anyway.

 

John sighed, leaning back a bit but not relaxing completely, more like he was bracing himself. Good. He should've. He was lucky I didn't throw him out the window. "He wanted to be safe."

 

"Be safe? And I can't keep a secret?"

 

"Ask him."

 

My voice spiked then, "I'm asking you, John," I said with an edge coating the words. It was barely a change, barely able to be noticed, but it shook the room all the same.

 

John paused. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and his twitchy fingers. He looked tired. I wanted to take him into my room and hold him so tight, tight enough to keep all of his pieces together because it looked like he was about to fall apart. At the same time, I wanted to kick him out, tell him to go get a hotel and piss off. I suppose I found balance in doing neither.

 

He ran a hand over his face, and the moment I could see his features again, he looked like he had aged ten years. I felt awful. I felt like I was coming apart at the seams, like he needed to hold me himself even though he was jumping off the roof yesterday.

 

And I felt angry. I wanted to tear the whole flat apart for no other reason than to destroy something. I felt like a storm, like a tragedy, like a force of nature that got kicked up after bad air pressure, and John— John was the source. John was the reason I felt like this.

 

"I didn't want to hurt you, Sherlock."

 

I could've laughed, "I know that. You're too soft for that."

 

"Too soft?" He asked and a flash of old banter invaded his tongue.

 

"Yes. But you did it anyway." My voice still had an edge to it, an edge that contrasted his desperate attempt at normalcy.

 

"Oh, my bad, I should've just let you die," He joked, his humour dry.

 

"That's not what I said."

 

"Then what are you trying to say, because I can't tell."

 

"You should've let me handle it!" I yelled and I swore I could hear birds take flight, "You should've let me..." I shook my head and stared into my lap. I hated this. I felt like every piece of my chest was being picked apart, like I was laid out for John to play with. He had complete control over my emotions for the past 24 hours and now that he was back, despite everything being different, nothing had changed. He could still press all my buttons, push tears to the back of my eyes, make my heart and hands tremble. He was still in control of every aspect of me. He always had been, and I was sick of it.

 

"I couldn't have done that, Sherlock," he said, and my name sounded like an apology, like snow in spring, like something that shouldn't have fitted so easily in his mouth.

 

He still looked so calm, and I wished he would break. I had seen him break. I had listened to his nightmares, I had seen him fall. I rested my head in my hand, titled so the whole room was off balance. I wished I could read him. I hadn't been able to that day. I should've seen it coming.

 

"I would've helped. If you had told me, I would've helped." The edge in my voice had worn away from the shout.

 

"I know."

 

"Stop saying that," I said calmly. All of my energy stores had been burnt, my chest almost burning from the effort to keep my ribs intact.

 

John bowed his head, "Right. Sorry."

 

I couldn't find words then. All of them were the same. We stayed quiet, a good amount of time passing without words. Evening light came through the window and John should've been asking about dinner, he would've been asking about dinner about now, but instead, he was back from the dead, taking up too much space in a chair that I had thought would be empty for as long as it was there. He didn't look at me, he looked at the wallpaper, looked at the sofa, looked at my chair before he looked at me.

 

"How would you have reacted if I was the one that jumped?"

 

John's head jerked towards me, "Sorry?"

 

"If I was the one who jumped, if you had to watch, if I came back and claimed I was doing it to protect you, how would you react?"

 

"I—You're not, Sherlock," he shuffled in his seat, "And I—That's not fair."

 

"How is it not fair?" I asked, sitting straight, keeping my face blank, "If I was the one who fell, who came back without a word—"

 

"That wasn't the plan, Sherlock."

 

"If I came back without a word, how would you react?"

 

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, "I don't know, Sherlock—"

 

"You don't know? Fine, I'll tell you."

 

"Sherlock—"

 

"You would hate me," I started despite his protests, my voice speeding up as I went along, "More than you ever have. Every time I've forgotten milk or did an experiment in the kitchen, every time you found something unsavoury in the fridge, all of that would pale in comparison. You would wish you never met me just so you wouldn't have to carry around this much hate on your back," I took a breath, my heart beating harder than I would've liked, my voice closer to cracking than I had wanted, "You would be willing," I started again, slower, "to tear apart everything and anything, for no other reason than wanting to feel something break."

 

His mouth was open but nothing came out, not even my name, not even a stutter. I huffed and stood, wanting to kick my chair—his chair, any chair, anything—but stomping off to my room instead. Dust had already accumulated in the air from the day of neglect, from the night spent in John's room because I hadn't wanted to feel alone. John would've left this flat with holes in that wall, with my room sealed off or destroyed. If I had left like he had, this flat would barely be standing.

 

I should've hated him how I had described, I should've wanted to tear him into pieces, but my chest felt completely void. I didn't feel angry, I just felt empty. I wanted to feel anything., and I should've gotten high while I had the chance.

 

I sat on my bed, head in my hands. John would come up in a few moments, knock lightly on the door, and ask if I was alright. I could let him in, let things settle into what they had been, let him have his normalcy, but I could've also completely shut him out. I could picture him moving out within a month, defeated and guilty. I could see the flat without him. I could see quiet mornings spent alone Mrs Hudson bringing in tea with worried lines marking her face.

 

I closed my eyes tight, pictured John out of my life, and the void in my chest only grew wider. I balled my fists against my thighs, took a long breath, opened my eyes, and stood, moving towards the bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little time between writing this and editing it. I'll try and have the next one written and up soon, but I have no idea when that'll be since school is starting soon (and I have to catch up on my reading) and because I have three other WIPs I'm working on, but don't worry, I'm not gonna abandon this one, it just might take more time than I would like.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Be sure to leave a comment and kudos! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Small thing since I'm doing NaNo and needed a break from the longer fic I'm working on. I have a second chapter/part planned, so let me know if that's a thing that could/should be added, but for now, I'll keep it as completed. Hope you enjoy !! xx


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